L'aura del Campo

Rocks, roads, oxen, yellow bird poop and satin vaginas

Winter: 4 Mulk (February 10)

TREASURE OF THE DAY

Please read this short story:

STATIC

Rocks for Mama  (ASR) A little girl's faith saves her mother. #863665 by Nikola~Thankful Library Lady

So ... ya gotta understand, I usually don't review short stories; however, this is a tear jerker with a nice bit of humor.

I can imagine 'Emily' being totally unaware of what she has done. The innocence of a 5 year old comes through.

2006-02-10
afternoon, 30 degrees and sunny. 23 and flaky in Metro Buffalo, NY.

I should be wishing for snow for my friends in New York. Guess it hasn't been very good for skiing. With the next 5 days forecast for under freezing, maybe that will change.

Yesterday, I went to a writer's workshop hosted by Moira and Michela. Richard is the opposite from me. He wants quality; I just want quantity, no matter how bad. He has writer's block. I don't! He writes philosophical prose that is based on reason and logic. Nope, I don't want logic and I choose not to be reasonable at all. I want language, communication and connection!

Moira had a bunch of prompts, but as I told her, I have a gazillion firing in my brain like fireworks. Michela then chose one: 'highways and roads'. So I made a word association list:

path, senda, riachuelos, streams, towpaths, bridges, ferries, viaducts, cloverleafs, culverts, lanes, brick, cobblestone, piedras, stairways, hairpin turns, open and flat, fresh graded, barditches, flooded, dams, Rte 10 overhang, fords, stars!

So I wrote a sketch:

Constellation of the Ox

The old road follows the flint stone path
where oxen forded the Baron Fork.
Along the banks of the Illinois:
all signs lost except this bridge.

What signs are found within our DNA
to tell us we've descended from the stars.
Can the ancient trace be followed back,
a bridge from whence we came.

If we ever find that primordial stream
that flows hidden through our blueblood veins,
will we be greeted by two old ox eyes
fording some long forgotten dream. [162.747]

Afterwards, Michela mentioned the word macadam, and the concept of blue highways (back roads less traveled) which of course ended up in another sketch. And Moira and Michela both commented on yellow bird poop. Which led to still another sketch this morning.

I had just spoken with a friend to remind him that he was a third of a century old. (Yep, 33 and 1/3, like an old vinyl long-playing record.) Since he can remind me that I'm approaching the speed limit, I thought this was just. I was sitting at Aimée's with the sun streaming across the old sofa. The colors yellow, saffron, golden, blond came to mind. And so a sketch was hatched. After some more editing, it might grow up to be a poem:

Season of the yellow bird poop

In the season of yellow bird poop,
sun streams in saffron tendrilled beams
to illuminate this couch, my black and yellow
checkered shirt, these morning thoughts.

I spoke to you of Crash-and-Smash, your son
who's three now. And how you've somehow
turned a third of a century today.
So old! You may forget, but I'll remind

you as I look at crocuses that lift
their golden petals up in prayer as sparrows
flit through air to mate among the bushes
there. It's breeding season and I still don't dare

ask why their poop is yellow. Should I care?
This morning, sunshine streams in golden beams,
the color of your thinning hair.
My aging friend, I'll always care. [162.749]

2006-02-10
almost vespers, 42 degrees. 49 in Tulsa, OK.

My friend Derick Snow has a gig in Tulsa tonight at Saffron Coffee. He's a very talented performance poet, actor, painter. I'm awed at his ability to command an audience.

Survived the day! Now that may not seem like much; but, my nerves were totally shot last night, and then again this afternoon. I'm getting older it seems. (The alternative has crossed my mind and been dismissed. It will come soon enough.) As a child I'd get hysterical when I misplaced my glasses. These days, heaven-help-me if I misplace my notepad. Which I did. But then found it this morning. I also don't handle loud obnoxious drunks very well and found myself in a situation where I couldn't leave. I shook until I could.

Up on the Hill. Spoke with some Libertarians and took the "World's Smallest Political Quiz" which can be found at http://www.theadvocates.org/quiz.html

It focuses on a grid where you answer ten questions and plot where you stand based on 1. Personal issues and 2. Economic issues. For me, I'm more firm on Personal issues, but can be moved on economic ones. The four corners are: libertarian, left-liberal, statist-big government, right-conservative. The center is centrist (duh).

Now, I have until next Wednesday to write a poem about bats. Yep. Forum discussion is going to be about bats. Interesting critters.

Since Cary is a gimp, I'm putting up the flyers for Poetry Night next Friday. And since I am scatter-brained, I'll keep my list here: Supersonic Music, White Chocolate, Henry's, and left one at Third Planet. Cary, by-the-way, was so bored, he hobbled down the stairs to cut and wrap biscuits. I think his ADD kicked in.

Tonight: Vagina Monologues (sold out). But ... you too could be a proud owner of a vagina pillow! I jest you not. They come in different colors. Anatomically correct, of course. Reminds me of the scene in Fried Green Tomatoes where Kathy Bates must look in a mirror and get in touch with herself. As a man I just cringed. Nice cellophane though. And we know what's in the sauce.

Just spoke to the women who's raffling them off. Her friend Vanessa makes them for about $60. Doesn't have a web-site, aw. But, I got her phone number! Three of them were displayed; two had parts in satin. Now ... the cool part. She dumpster dives for the cloth! Now ... I can feel ... can feel a poem ... a poetic poem ... coming forth.